


we can make the stars align

by distantlullaby



Series: 충분해 but I'm starving, baby [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Big Bang references sprinkled around like chocolate shavings on a black forest pastry, Ground Floor (original establishment), M/M, Side WinIl, Strangers to Lovers, coffee shop AU, johnten are my lifeforce, pour one out for Taeil's suffering, sometimes the real villain is the flapjack you burn along the way, the author takes the liberty of making several bad bee puns in succession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27857245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantlullaby/pseuds/distantlullaby
Summary: Taeil rushes to the cash register, but not before hissing “I sign your paycheck,” and pulling loose the waist knot of Ten’s apron, leaving Ten clicking his tongue in light vexation. In the rush to make Kun his latte, Ten mindlessly sticks the post-it on the espresso machine, intending to admire his handiwork until his shift is over, and forgets all about it.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Series: 충분해 but I'm starving, baby [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039373
Comments: 38
Kudos: 74





	1. tell me bout’ your dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> *offkey kazoo playing* GM FOLKS !!! today i present: a series of fics, of which this is the first, that took so much of my time and tears that I will now treat them like children.
> 
> this may/may not be more elaborately planned than it needs to be- it’s just a coffee shop au that ballooned into a giant series of extremely entertaining events. 
> 
> the characters are aged slightly upwards/downwards to fit everyone from 94 to 02 line into 4 years of college, like so:  
> 94, 95 - Seniors [Taeil - Johnny - Taeyong - Yuta]  
> 96, 97 - Juniors [ Ten - Kun - Doyoung - Jaehyun - Sicheng]  
> 98, 99 - Sophomores [ Jungwoo - Mark - Lucas]  
> 00, 01, 02 - Freshmen [ Donghyuck - Norenmin - Chenle - Jisung]
> 
> PS: title from Fireflies by NCT Dream, as is the name for every chapter :>  
> PPS: series title from Taeyong's Long Flight (aka, the only song ever.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bee Taeil,” muses Ten, the marker flying across the post-it. “Taeil Moon. Moon Bee. Bee Taeil.”
> 
> “I’m so glad I always have no idea what you’re saying, at all, ever,” Taeil tells him sincerely. “It fills me with the tranquility and peace my soul craves.”

Ten stares malevolently at the bell above the entrance to the coffee shop, willing someone to walk in.

He's doing this for many reasons, primarily because “Ten was wiping the counter” isn’t the greatest start to a story. He's also quite determined to put off the actual wiping for as long as he can, because it's about as fun as doing algebra, or watching paint dry—that is to say, not at all.

Tuesdays, Taeil had warned him, were very slow for business, especially during the morning shift. It’s well past breakfast time but nowhere near lunch, and Ten is running out of options to keep himself occupied. 

(a) He could eat one of the flapjacks from the display rack, but he nearly burnt one in the morning (and he's ready to swear up and down that it was _not_ his fault, Ground Floor's microwave is just unreasonably fussy) so he’s feeling quite sore towards the flapjacks at the moment.

(b) He could make conversation with the espresso machine, but there was the risk that Taeil or a customer could walk in and interrupt them, which would be inconvenient. First impressions, even if they’re on an espresso machine, are important to Ten—today’s his first day at Ground Floor, Taeil’s uncle’s shop on campus.

Ten applied for the job because he likes people, coffee and money, but he didn’t account for being utterly bored out of his mind (not because he expects time spent waiting tables to be illustrious or spicy in the least, but because he was expecting Lucas' company).

Ten grows indignant as he considers this. Lucas was supposed to be here. Lucas had worked here for a week already, and had endorsed Taeil as a Totally Chill Manager Dude (his exact words). Lucas' first day off just HAD to coincide with Ten’s first day at work, which was both frustrating and unfortunate for Ten, and as all good friends do, Ten planned never to let him hear the end of it.

His head perks up as he sees a figure stop outside the door, but drops when the stranger continues to make their way onward instead of entering. He sighs, shoulders slumping.

He decides it wasn’t emphatic enough, and sighs louder. 

“Are you okay?” Taeil asks, concerned. “Did you inhale the coffee powder accidentally or something?”

“I’m fine,” Ten groans, toying with a marker pen. His artist fingers are itching to draw; it’s been a while. Taeil goes back to sweeping the largest round table in the shop clean, with a back and forth motion that doesn’t accomplish much more than simply sending the crumbs flying from one end to another.

“Do you like bees, Taeil?” asks Ten, plucking a post-it from underneath the counter. “Not more than most other people,” Taeil responds, bumbling around and knocking into a chair before busying himself with the buzzing espresso machine. 

[Ten makes a lenny face at the author, who makes one back. _Three puns, nice,_ he mouths.]

“Bee Taeil,” muses Ten, the marker flying across the post-it. “Taeil Moon. Moon Bee. Bee Taeil.”

“I’m so glad I always have no idea what you’re saying, at all, ever,” Taeil tells him sincerely. “It fills me with the tranquility and peace my soul craves.”

In a minute, or five, Ten looks down in satisfaction at his work. The post-it now sports a large bee lounging on a crescent moon, only the bee’s face is an extremely detailed portrait of Moon Taeil’s face. He focuses on adding finishing touches to the hair, tongue stuck out in concentration.

“Can I please have a-”

“One minute,” says Ten to this customer, who’s clearly not considerate enough to _wait_. 

“But I’ve been standing here for the last five minutes,” protests the customer mildly. Ten looks up, wide-eyed. “Wait, I know you. Qian Kun?”

“In the flesh,” smiles Kun sheepishly. “You’re friends with Taeyong, from physio, right?”

“That’s me! What can I get you?”

“Just an almond latte, please. Can I pay at the counter?”

“There’s-" Ten spins to the counter, and notes the lack of staffing there. He can't very well say _sure, pay at the counter!!!_ and then rush over to the counter himself, and pretend to be the cashier as well as the barista, because that's really odd. Kun will never return if he does that. He'll probably tell his friends too, how odd the cashier/barista at Ground Floor is. Damn it.

Ten chews on his lip, conflicted. "Well, this is embarrassing," Ten finally says. "There’s no one at the counter.” He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze wandering the shop. “Hold on just a second, I’ll fix that.”

Taking a deep breath, Ten turns, and bellows “ _MOON TAEIL!_ ” in the direction of the office at an unearthly volume, missing the way a startled Kun jumps 6 feet in the air in fright. Ten schools his features back into a pleasant smile, turning back around to face Kun, and nods at him courteously. “He’ll be here right now.”

Taeil jogs into place behind the counter, but not before hissing “I sign your paycheck,” and pulling loose the waist knot of Ten’s apron, leaving Ten clicking his tongue in light vexation. In the rush to make Kun his latte, Ten mindlessly sticks the post-it on the espresso machine, intending to admire his handiwork until his shift is over, and in the way that people often do, he forgets all about it.

(__)Ɔ

“Thanks for hiring me, man,” Johnny says to Moon Taeil, his new manager, hanging up his own coat on the rack behind the counter. “You’re a lifesaver. When I heard Ground Floor was hiring, I basically came flying. This place was a sanctuary for freshman Johnny.”

“I wish all my new employees were more like you,” Taeil says, more to himself than to Johnny. “Some of them just… draw on my post-its and burn flapjacks.”

“Tough going, dude,” sympathizes Johnny. “Are there going to be more new hires? Or is it just me for the evening shifts?”

“For now, just you,” muses Taeil slowly, thinking back to the pile of resumes he's still to consider, in a neat stack on his table. “I’ll probably be hiring for the rest of this month, since, you know, we don’t have the biggest staffing yet.” He sounds a little sad. 

“We’ll have it under control,” smiles Johnny gently, sounding like he really means it. He pats Taeil’s shoulder, adjusting his own apron. “Cheer up, won’t you?”

Johnny’s first evening shift goes more or less swimmingly—he’s a smooth, economic worker, which comes in handy especially when he manages to heat flapjacks without burning them.

Taeil is extremely pleased.

Johnny likes the shop, likes its ambience, the warm lights, the quiet hustle of busy patrons. There isn’t a single clock in the establishment, and privately, Johnny’s always felt like Ground Floor preserves its own little bubble of time, and works differently than the outside.

His friend Doyoung walks in at some point in the evening, and congratulates him on finally getting his nose out of his business textbook for long enough to find a job. Johnny, in true business-major fashion, rolls his eyes good-naturedly and gets straight to making Doyoung's Americano. He's only just pulling out the portafilter when he catches sight of a post-it someone’s stuck carelessly to the side of the espresso machine, and pauses to blink at it.

After Doyoung's paid and left, Johnny returns to the post-it for a second glance, snorting at what he sees.

He’s extremely amused by it; it’s both witty and very casually drawn, Taeil's face on a bee sitting on a moon. Sneaking a glance to his left and right, Johnny plucks a post-it from under the counter and uncaps the marker himself. _Sorry, Taeil,_ he thinks. _One of your workers burns flapjacks and steals post-its, and the other, well, at least he does only one of those._

(__)Ɔ 

“Ten hyung!” Lucas exclaims the next day, beaming at him.

“Lucas,” Ten responds, with a curt nod.

Lucas blinks at him. “TEN HYUNG!” he enthuses again, with renewed vigor.

“Lucas,” whines Ten, despondent, and thumps his head against the wall. “You left me alone yesterday. Delete my number, I don’t know you anymore.”

“ _No,_ ” wails Lucas softly, hugging the life out of Ten, who distinctly hears two of his vertebrae pop. He's accustomed to Lucas' frequent bear hugs, but he may not live past 30 if his spine doesn't hold up — he’s struggling to breathe, whacking an oblivious Lucas repeatedly on one muscled, impervious shoulder. Taeil chooses that exact second to walk in, stopping short at the sight of Lucas basically strangling Ten.

Taeil opens his mouth to make a comment, then seems to think the better of it. “Good morning, Lucas,” he says. Lucas turns around, and Ten crumples to the ground, gasping for air.

“TAEIL HYUNG!” He gives Taeil a bear hug too, and notices a patron waiting at the counter, who's clearing her throat nervously because she doesn't know how to cut in and ask for a pickle bagel from staff who are cutting off each other's circulation affectionately. Lucas beams at her. “Good morning, what can Ten hyung over there get you?”

Taeil surreptitiously takes off the badge that reads MANAGER on his shirt.

(__)Ɔ 

Halfway through Ten’s second day, he remembers Taeil Bee Moon, and giggles as he arranges the creamer packets in the ceramic holder. He hunts around for the post-it, trying to remember where he'd stuck it, and eventually a flutter of pale yellow by the espresso machine catches his eye.

He ambles over to it, pleased—and stares. There's another post-it stuck on top of his, with a message on it and everything. Would Taeil have—no. It couldn’t have been Taeil. “Taeil hyung,” calls Ten, not taking his eyes off the post-it.

“Yeah? Oh god, is the machine okay?” 

“Jeez, Taeil hyung, yes it is. I was just wondering if someone touched it after me yesterday? It’s… uh, it’s angled away from the counter and that’s, yeah, inconvenient or whatever.”

“Right.” Ten could tell from Taeil’s tone that he didn’t necessarily believe him. “It must’ve been the evening shift who moved it, mustn’t it?”

Ten nods, lost in thought, still looking at the post-it.

 **This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, you’re incredibly talented** , it reads. Ten feels obscurely pleased. Best thing that’s happened to him today, 10/10.

 **Why thank you,** Ten writes back on a fresh post-it. **  
I showed up today and found no flapjacks  
burnt- you’re clearly also incredibly  
talented, my dude, how did you manage that ** **ཀ ʖ̯ ཀ**

(__)Ɔ

It turns into a Thing, leaving post-its for each other to find.

Ten’s entire shift revolves around making bad jokes with Lucas, infuriating and then placating (and then again infuriating) Taeil, and writing little notes to this coworker of his when no one’s looking. It's a little bizarre, talking so freely with someone he doesn't know the first thing about—Ten doesn't know if "friends" is the category "coworker who communicates exclusively through post-it notes" falls under. They didn't give him a manual for this stuff.

(Or even one for the microwave, which explains why that bitch is so hard to figure out.)

It's hard to know what your boundaries are with someone you've only been complimented for a doodle from, and it's this odd limbo Ten can't actually find a way out of. It would be rude to waltz into the shop after his shift to find out who's behind the counter, leaving the post-its, and Ten would feel uncomfortable ambushing them. They haven't even asked for each other's names yet.

They talk about Taeil, and customers, and plants, but not their years or majors. It's an unspoken sort of rule, the kind of privacy Ten won't breach. Maybe he's overthinking it, and it's not that serious, but because it's the kind of decision Ten doesn't have to immediately make, he shelves the thought. 

The stack of post-its under the counter deteriorates rapidly, somehow escaping Taeil’s attention, finding themselves stuck by Ten and Johnny on and around the espresso machine, the back of the Specials menu, and even tucked between the leaves of the fake plants Taeil insists they keep around the shop for “atmosphere”. 

They scribble notes to each other about the most mundane things, Ten talking about a dog he saw near the Arts building, and Johnny helpfully supplying that if you stare at the stain on their shared apron for too long, it's vaguely dog-like in shape.

Ten—the kind of person who’s always loved surprises—takes a lot of joy in the back and forth banter; he does wish that they could talk more than one sentence or so per day, but he’ll take what he can get. Curiously enough, he finds himself keeping the post-it exchange a secret from Lucas, and obviously from Taeil, the Divine Benefactor To Whom the Post-Its Belonged, who was one day going to notice how the stack had nearly halved itself in no time at all.

Ten is in the habit of leaving plenty of doodled emoticons in his notes, too, because why not. Who would’ve thought the highlight of Ten’s collegiate life would be taking time out between dashing to-and-fro with sugar, croissants and a panini to scribble a quick note on a post-it?

**Taeil’s in a bad mood today. Beware.  
** **Also I may have had something to do** **  
** **with that.** **(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ Also I ate the last pastry  
because I was starving ᕕ( ཀ ʖ̯ ཀ)ᕗ I’m  
convinced that you’re the better employee.  
ಠ╭╮ಠ**

 **Taeil likes me, I’m not worried : >  
** **Was it the almond pastry? I gotta  
compliment you ****on your taste. Those  
are SUBLIME. ****This one kid yesterday  
took away four pieces of it, and oh,  
to be him.** ******Your emojis are very cute.**

 **YOU’RE cute.** **  
** **God today Vice-Dean Chanyeol walked in** **  
** **and I almost poured vanilla extract into a plant.  
** **Also please tell Taeil to keep almond milk** **  
** **stocked and labelled hhhh I can’t tell it apart**  
**from regular milk (Ｔ▽Ｔ)**

 **Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. I did it, I’ve** **  
** **labelled the bottles and stashed them in the** **  
** **fourth shelf from the bottom, they’re  
****not hard** **to spot :)  
  
Also, for someone who’s never ** **  
** **even met me, you sure are confident** **  
** **in my cuteness(?)**

 **THANK YOU MWAH ANGEL** **  
** **I OWE YOU BIG TIME MY DUDE  
** **  
** **A guy has ways to be able to** **  
** **tell, you know. *men in black** **  
** **theme plays***

 **Anytime haha :D  
**  
**I know you didn’t ask Taeil.  
** **You wouldn’t ask Taeil, right?** **  
** **(Did you ask Taeil.)**

 **I didn’t ask Taeil! I don’t even know** **  
** **your name! WHat  
** **W  
** **What he fuck dude I don’t even know** **  
** **your name what is it**

**;0 and what do I get in return?**

When Ten sees the latest of these post-its stuck boldly to the apron, with an even bolder message, he raises an eyebrow. It’s hard to say how long he stares at the post-it, a hint of a smile creeping across his face, tongue poking into his cheek even as Taeil drops his face into his hands after calling Ten’s name for the third time and being met with no reply.

Ten grins at the post-it. He wouldn't admit it, but he likes this game. 

**A kith? Do you accept payment in kithes?  
** **You’re really making me work for this** **  
** **aren’t you** **(ノAヽ)** **  
** **This is payback from the universe for all** **  
** **the misery I’ve inflicted on Taeil isn’t it**

Yes, he likes the game, but he won’t make it easy for his coworker; not without finding out as much as he can about them first. By some maddening turn of events, the next day he’s met with a post-it that says:

**Oh come on you can’t possibly be all that bad  
** **Also I’ve decided to be sexy and mysterious** **  
** **and not tell you my name, sorry ;(** **  
** **You have your art skills and your charm going** **  
** **for you lol the only thing I can do is heat flapjacks** **  
** **without burning them. Therefore :).** **  
**

Ten huffs. It’s annoying, how much he’s actually beginning to enjoy this (if the crazy rate at which the post-its are being used up is any indication). He wonders, idly, if he's ever going to meet this coworker, and what they're going to be like, and how he'll eventually find out who they are. He doesn't really have the time to dwell on it, though, especially not today—Fridays are easily the busiest of all the days in the week, as far as business at Ground Floor goes.

Between helping Lucas dislodge the drawer in the cash register and wiping down Table 5, he doesn’t have time to scribble more than a short note in reply to the previous one, although he’d write a whole essay if it fit on a post-it.

**(ｉДｉ)THE LEVEL OF BETRAYAL** **  
** **I TRUSTED YOU. FUCKER.** **  
** **NO KITHES FOR YOU EVER**

He’s late to work the next day, and quite distracted by something Lucas knocked over accidentally, which Taeil saved with not a single second to spare—that is to say, Ten almost doesn’t find the next post-it.

Lucas brings it to his notice, and thankfully doesn't ask any questions about what it is; it’s tucked into the cash register.

**Aw man :( I’ll get those kithes somehow.** **  
** **You’ll see >;( also is Taeil dating someone?** **  
** **He keeps giggling like a fool at his phone and i  
** **KNOW it’s not because our preponed** **  
** **midterms timetable showed up**

Ten smiles. _Gotcha._

**So you’re a senior. Hehehehe seniors** **  
** **have a preponed exam week this time round** **  
** **don’t they** **(͡ ͡° ͜ つ ͡͡°)** **poor dears.** **  
** **Yeah he is, he’s dating Dong Sicheng,** **  
** **roommate of a friend. They cute ♥‿♥**

**Well shit, there you have it, I’m a senior. Well played.** **  
** **Us poor bastards really got unlucky >:( also good for ** **  
** **Taeil, honestly, the man deserves all the happiness** **  
** **he can get, what with his morning shift coworker** **  
** **spilling a whole pint of soy milk down his own front** **  
** **yesterday??**

Ten gasps like he’s been accused to his face. 

**I CNAT BELEIEV TAEIL TOLD YOU THAT WTF  
** **I HATE IT HERE WITH Y’ALL  
** **ALSO THE MUG WAS CRACKED. THAT CERAMIC** ****  
**BITCH IS2FG I LITERALLY PICKED IT UP AND IT** **  
** **SHATTERED. WASN’T MY FAULT.**

(__)Ɔ 

The first time Ten gets a taste of what it’s like, going without talking to his coworker daily, is when Ground Floor shortens its hours for senior midterms. Taeil and this coworker of his are both seniors, as is his friend Yuta, and so Ten languishes for two weeks without getting the chance to talk much to any of them. He runs the shop until lunchtime, after which it closes for the day.

To his credit, during these two weeks, he gets better at waiting tables and refraining from knocking things (breakable, ceramic things) over while Taeil is gone, which he hopes will be a pleasant surprise for Taeil once they reopen properly.

At present, the only option besides straightening the chairs in the shop was studying, and the design textbook lying forlornly in his bag, untouched, was an indication of how well _that_ would go.

Restless as ever, and having resolved his enmity with the microwave, he truly considers eating a flapjack from the display. It's right there. His name is practically on it; to the rest of the world, the flag next to the plate might read FLAPJACKS, but to him it reads TEN LEE. Ultimately, he gives up the idea, and draws on another post-it—he sketches a flapjack the way one would sketch Godzilla: eyes flaming, looming over a city.

He smiles, pleased with it.

It wasn’t until Wednesday in the third week that he found the next post-it. 


	2. i believe i was there too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Those post-its sure have a way of disappearing fast, don’t they? I’ll have to replace them, I wonder how they got used up. I can swear I only used about six—”
> 
> Ten’s expression freezes on his face.
> 
> He turns around slowly to face Taeil, an absolutely vacant smile plastered on his face. “What’s a post-it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :> this chapter is  
> a) severely unedited, but i promise i'll fix that in a while  
> b) dedicated to the lovely @/hopelessly_hopeful, who deserves a shower of kithes, a pear, and a black tabby cat. <3

**Your first post it in three weeks** **  
****is a lyric to a Big Bang song.** **  
****I’m** **  
****I.  
** **No words.** **  
****“Wow, fantastic baby.”**

 **I hope you’re not accusing me of not** **  
****having taste, because Big Bang was** **  
****the pinnacle of music. The profound** **  
****lyrics played a big part :D**

And what is Ten supposed to do, object?

(__)Ɔ 

Ten cannot stop thinking about the post-its. It’s just one of those things, like the video of that Turkish man yelling meow at that egg, or Cardi B yelling CORONAVIRUS, that takes up residence in your mind absolutely uninvited. “I can’t do this anymore,” he whines, upside down on Yuta’s bed.

“Do what,” Yuta says, deadpan, typing away rapidly at a metaphysics paper he’s meant to submit before midnight.

“This,” replies Ten, almost tacking on a _duh_ at the end.

“I see,” Yuta throws over his shoulder, really doing anything but seeing.

Ten doesn’t even have the energy to protest. He shifts around on Yuta’s bed, not actually getting anywhere. “Do you know anyone in your year who listens to Big Bang?” At that, Yuta actually stops typing for a second, redirecting his attention to a squirming Ten. “I don’t know anyone who doesn’t listen to Big Bang. I actively refrain from knowing such people.” 

Ten is inching closer and closer to the ground, very close to falling off the edge of the bed, head-first. He ignores gravity. “So, there’s this guy.”

Yuta's typing abruptly stops. His revolving office chair spins around slowly, creaking like it’s in a bad mafia movie, only there’s no creepy organ background music. Yuta brings his fingertips together, staring directly at Ten. “Details.”

Ten tells him as little as he can get away with; he doesn’t mention them being coworkers, just the post-it notes; Yuta knows not to ask if Ten isn’t willing to spill it himself—and it's not like Ten doesn't have much to say, even without all the background information. Ten muses all his thoughts out loud: how genuinely interesting post-it boy seems, his gallant, self-assured way of talking, the considerate, intelligent person that seems to be behind those notes.

“For all I know, he could look like a troll,” Ten finishes, throwing up his hands, except he’s upside down so it’s technically throwing _down_ his hands, “but I’m not wrong about what a great person he probably is.”

“You’re never going to get anywhere like this,” Yuta says plainly. “Get him to tell you who he is, Ten. Swap numbers with him. You’re great at getting what you want, it’s one of my favorite things about you.”

“I’d believe you if you sounded sincere? Why do you sound like I’m intruding on your assignment time?”

Yuta heaves a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Guess, Ten Lee, guess.”

(__)Ɔ 

“It’s a boy, isn’t it,” grunts Doyoung, sitting himself down on the grass beside Johnny. The quad at night is empty, save for a few dragonflies that fill the air with a warm, constant buzz.

“Isn’t it always,” exhales Johnny into the night. “He draws, Doyoung. He draws so well.”

“What’s his name?”

Johnny lets out an evasive laugh.

“Hyung.”

“Funny story, Doyoungie…” The explanation that follows is stilted, a little uncertain, some parts worth repeating, others worth skipping, or shelving as secret. Johnny doesn’t know the way around this—he’s never done this before. He fixes his gaze on a lamp-post by the path, flickering in the heavy dusk that’s long fallen. 

“Wait so are you—do you like him?” Doyoung asks, after the long pause that follows Johnny’s story.

“That’s a good question. Let’s consider that I barely know him, but it doesn’t feel like that, you know? The distance feels safe but it feels… enough. For now. I know it won’t be, soon, but— for now, you know?”

There’s another long, companionable silence that the two allow themselves to fall into. Johnny looks up, not thinking much of anything. There aren’t any stars in the sky—maybe two if you squint, but it’s always been like that. Doyoung beats a rhythm with his fingertips on the grass. “How were your midterms?”

“...next question.”

Doyoung laughs.

(__)Ɔ 

Ten's month goes the same way most do. He complains about his assignments, annoys Yuta in increasingly creative ways in his free time, and slowly learns how to heat flapjacks without burning them. The microwave is a stubborn, uncooperative metal box, but Ten isn't willing to go down without a fight. Even Taeil has warmed up to him quite the amount — all it really took was Taeil mentioning that he had bucket-loads of paperwork to do, and Ten coming in early one morning to help, because Taeil looked stressed.

Taeil looks up at him, blinks, and says, “It isn’t 9 a.m. yet. Am I imagining you?”

Ten stares at him.

“Did I drink too much coffee? Is that what this is?” Taeil continues, looking genuinely worried. “Why couldn’t I have hallucinated Brad Pitt instead?”

“I’m as concerned about you as you are,” Ten replies kindly, settling down opposite Taeil at the table in the manager’s office. “Now, about that paperwork, what can I help you with?”

To Taeil’s surprise, Ten is quite adept at mathematics- considering his art and design major, Taeil wouldn’t have expected it of him. Ten takes to the calculation part of it beautifully, with singular focus, and Taeil soon realizes with some delight that the work will probably get done in about half the expected time.

He thanks Ten warmly, who smiles in return with a, “My pleasure, hyung,” tying his apron and getting ready for the first wave of customers. Taeil passes the counter on his way to the kitchen, and then doubles back, with a puzzled squint in the direction of the shelf under it. “Those post-its sure have a way of disappearing fast, don’t they? I’ll have to replace them, I wonder how they got used up. I can swear I only used about six—”

Ten’s expression freezes on his face.

He turns around slowly to face Taeil, an absolutely vacant smile plastered on his face. “What’s a post-it?”

(__)Ɔ 

The shop is really, really busy today, much to Taeil’s delight. He greets the customers cheerily, gliding from table to table using his _customer-service_ , _i'm-the-manager-folks_ voice, to inquire whether everything is to their satisfaction. Ten would be amused by it, but the morning rush is a bit much to keep up with, order after order, drink after drink.

Lucas isn't having the easiest time either, drawing up receipt after receipt, spelling the names on them all wrong in his hurry. Jaehyun, Mingyu and Dokyeom leave with receipts addressed to Jinkies, Mango and Devilman. “Autocorrect,” groans Lucas, close to tears. The three customers leave with nods, pretending to understand and sympathize, even though they’re well aware there’s no autocorrect on typewriters.

Taeil was the one who insisted on the antique typewriter cash register. He said it had “charm”. Lucas claims it has “fungus”. It’s none of Ten’s business, really.

Eventually, the crowd thins out, and Ten doesn't have to wait many tables anymore. He does what any self-respecting coffee shop employee would do with the sudden slowing of customers—bustle around the counter and wipe mugs with rags like some kind of domestic, cosmopolitan bartender, occasionally handing out things like tissues and spoons to patrons who come asking for them.

He finds out, while arranging the creamer packets to spell rude words, that the strawberry syrup dispenser kind of leaks, if you press it hard enough.

“Oh, what a pity,” Ten says to no one, faking indifference to mask his glee, “that all the leaked syrup is going to go to waste.” He glances around covertly and swipes up the gap in the plastic, and licks the tip of his finger, catlike, deciding that the flavor of strawberry is truly unparalleled. He slides a tiny bowl under the leak, to collect the viscous sweetener in case the gap widens during the day.

He glances around again.

No one’s looking.

He decides to enthusiastically pump the dispenser once more, for good luck, and ends up with something like a dripping handful of strawberry syrup that he can’t very well guzzle at the head of a shop full of patrons with appetites, who likely will not stay that way if they see him trying to do what looks like _eating_ his own _hand_. 

So he takes a tiny break, disappears into the back and proves to himself that a handful of strawberry syrup is a happy accident, and he did not wildly miscalculate how much one tiny, miniscule pump would dispense. 

All that really matters is that he was right, and happy, and satisfied: the ultimate holy trinity that forms the path to nirvana.

After cleaning and drying his hands thoroughly, he dashes out front again, skidding to a stop right behind Lucas at the counter. “What’d I miss?” he asks Lucas.

“Yuqi is mad at me,” Lucas offers, sadly. 

“Oh no,” Ten says. “Why?”

“The name on her receipt was spelt ‘Yuck’,” answers Lucas, still despondent. “Also, Taeil hyung told me to let you know that you left your red bag in his office this morning, when you came in early for paperwork or something. He said not to forget to take it when you leave, and he said you probably will, and come rushing back for it.”

“Do you ever reckon,” Ten says, thoughtfully, “that the man is too foresighted for his own good?”

The rest of Ten’s shift passes without much incident. He eyes the syrup longingly multiple times that afternoon, but he is a Strong Willed Man who won’t give in to his Mundane Needs (he steals a pinch of chocolate shavings as compensation). 

He doesn’t get to write out his post-it message until almost lunchtime, towards the tail end of his shift, but it’s not like him to forget. 

**Would you be interested in a funny** **  
****story about how Taeil hyung noticed** **  
****the fast-vanishing post its, and asked** **  
****me if I knew where they were? Spoiler:** **  
****this story ends with me replying,  
intelligently, ** **‘What’s a post-it?’  
(▀̿Ĺ̯▀̿ ̿)**

He sticks it firmly onto the syrup dispenser (he’s not above a last lick) and looks down at the time, doing a violent double take when he realizes that he’s going to be late for design class with no time to spare for lunch if he doesn’t Sprint, Immediately. Whipping off his apron, he dashes like a madman past the counter, waving goodbye to Lucas and darting past Taeil with a “See you, hyung!” 

Taeil is not fazed. He knows that in about a minute, Ten will careen through the door again, because he forgot his bag, as Tens often do.

Sure enough, in about a minute, a Ten-shaped whirlwind graces Ground Floor, bolting straight into the manager’s room, and then back out again, bag in tow, leaping nimbly past occupied and unoccupied tables and chairs. 

Taeil knows how this goes. “Now he’ll run right,” he says under his breath, watching, amused, as Ten bounds down the path, “and now he’ll remember that the Design building is actually on the left.” Sure enough, a markedly more agitated looking blur of Ten streaks in the opposite direction.

Shaking his head, with a smile bordering on fond, Taeil turns his attention back to the counter.

(__)Ɔ 

Today, decides Johnny, is a good day. He woke up later than he meant to, and ditched class to lazily work on his business assignment underneath the quadrant sun, lunch in his box.

Now that both of those things are over, it's time for his shift. He notes, pleased, that he's right on time for work, rounding the corner to Ground Floor. It would be criminal, he thinks, to attend classes on a day like this; beautiful weather and the shroud of lazy comfort that followed him around, making its home in his bones, but Ground Floor’s ambience is perfect for preserving that feeling.

Lost in thought, Johnny trudges along, not paying much attention to the chattering students or the distant cheerleader practice whistles, which explains why he's completely caught off guard when a lean blur of a person almost barrels into him, yelping a “Sorry!” over his shoulder.

Johnny blinks.

The morning is still and quiet and warm, and Johnny would almost believe he'd imagined running into someone, if not for the afterimage of a red bag on the inside of his eyelids, and the pleasant, lingering smell of strawberry flavoring. 

His mellow mood, still intact, follows him into the shop, which he notices is more empty than not, explained by the fact that the lunch wave of customers is now receding for the evening.

He waves a cheery hello to Taeil, who’s puttering around behind the counter.

“Johnny,” greets Taeil, with a broad smile. “You’re just in time. Get the paninis from the grill, in the kitchen, and put them inside the display fridge, will you?” Johnny obliges, hanging up his jacket and putting on the apron. Amidst flicking the espresso machine on and restocking the creamer packets, he catches sight of a yellow post-it, fluttering on one of the syrup dispensers.

Maybe it’s the strawberry scent from earlier, or the great mood Johnny woke up in, but today seems like the right day for doing something commendably impulsive. Making a mental note to restock at least half the post-its, Johnny peels one off from the top of the miniscule pile, and scribbles on it, mouth curved up in a half smile. 

Because Taeil is on duty today, he makes the judicious decision of folding the yellow piece of paper and slipping it into the decorative pot of ground coffee, just the tip peeking out, noticeable only by someone who is looking for it. 

(__)Ɔ 


	3. show you what it’s all about

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good morning,” he says to Taeil tiredly, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders.
> 
> “Sure it is,” replies Taeil, whose shoulders the world actually does rest on.

“Taeil hyung, that smells incredible,” groans Johnny, dashing into the kitchen for a clean cloth and two trays. Taeil grins, pulling a rack out of the oven with a colourful mitten, taking a large whiff himself. “They did come out quite well, didn’t they,” he muses, examining the baking tray.

“Give yourself a little more credit,” laughs Johnny. “Everything you touch is perfection. I’d camp out at Ground Floor just for our cheese and tomato sandwiches if I didn’t already work here.” Taeil huffs in amusement, swatting in Johnny’s direction. “It’s true!” Johnny insists, still laughing. “I’m not one to lay it on thick, but for those sandwiches, I’d sell you my children. What’d you just take out of the oven?”

“Brownies,” announces Taeil.

“Brownies,” Johnny repeats, in a reverent whisper. 

He grabs the trays and cloth he'd come for, stopping to reposition the kettle so it doesn’t fall off the shelf. “I’ll be by the register if you need me,” he calls, giving Taeil a two-fingered salute and returning to the counter.

Ground Floor takes on a different aura in the evening. Johnny’s been here plenty of times—both at noon and in the evening, for a quick dose of caffeine before a long night of Business Studies assignment work—right from his first semester as a freshman, and it’s always markedly different at night. 

During the day, it feels large and open and yellow inside, the smell of chocolate and a number of interesting conversations to listen in on if you have the time. Plates clink, people laugh, and underneath it all is the steady hum of the espresso machine. In the evening, somehow, Ground Floor feels smaller, a deep blue, cozier, like home. The blinds on the large windows are shut, and it’s a lot more quiet, the AC or heaters on, leaves of the plants inside swaying gently. 

Johnny loves it during the evenings, when students come in after a long day of classes, because even in his opinion, Ground Floor is a great place to unwind. The customers are also generally nicer in the evening, according to Taeil, which is why Johnny is always caught off guard by snarky, unpleasant customers.

“Um? Hi?” says a girl, drumming long acrylic nails on the counter impatiently. Her nose is screwed up in permanent distaste, as if everyone around her is a large, bright pink beetle and she can’t stand it. Johnny can’t begin to understand why she’s so impatient, because she got here less than 20 seconds ago. 

“Good evening. What can I get you?”

“Um, I can’t see the specials?” She peers at the board that clearly says SPECIALS in sufficiently large font, and Johnny realizes a little belatedly that she’s one of those people who always spits sentences like they’re questions. “Can you just tell me what you have today?” She flips her hair over her shoulder testily.

“We have brownies, freshly made, if you’d like,” offers Johnny, noting the line that’s accumulating behind her.

“Um?” the girl says, sounding almost offended. She looks at Johnny like he’s coated in slime. If he were an outsider, he’d almost laugh at the fact that she just expects him to know what she likes. He waits for her to continue. She doesn’t. She slowly raises a pencilled eyebrow, shaking her head a little as if to ask why he isn’t listing eight more items.

“You could try the flapjacks?” tries Johnny, attempting to hide a smile at the faces that customers behind her are making at her. Holding up a line is quite rude, and tends to annoy people in a way that Johnny is now used to observing, what with working at a coffee shop and all.

“No?” the girl replies, like she wouldn’t eat it if it were the last thing on earth.

"A bagel, or a cheesecake?”

“I don't _think_ so?”

Johnny pushes his hair back in thought, and employs a mild, teacherly tone. “Would you like a layered, square bagel with spiced and shredded vegetable filling, tossed in salad dressing with a drizzle of vinaigrette?”

The girl looks impressed despite herself. “I— sure, I think that sounds okay? Can I take it to go?”

“You can,” says Johnny, finally letting that smile he’d been hiding creep onto his face. He grabs a coleslaw sandwich, muttering “square bagel, I swear,” to himself to keep from laughing, and packs it in brown paper deftly. Once she’s left, he redirects his attention to the next customer in line, who’s grinning all over her face. “I’d like an almond pastry, to go, thanks.” 

Johnny nods, bringing one to the counter. “I don’t mean to be nosy,” she says to him, watching him pack it, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the last customer.” She sounds very entertained. “Did you really just describe a sandwich like it was a Michelin meal and get away with it?”

He grins, setting her packed pastry on the counter and sliding her money into the register drawer, coins jingling as he holds out the change. “I really didn’t know whether she’d buy it. I think I just got lucky.”

“Well played,” the customer remarks, shaking her head in grave admiration. “Can I tip you extra or something? That made my entire week.”

(__)Ɔ 

Ten squints at the espresso machine.

He's sleepy. He's running on a truly impressive 6 hours of sleep and the leftover euphoria from having finished his humongous design project. The night was long, and unfriendly to him: caffeine here, papercuts there, and in between adding geometry to his personal list of lifelong enemies and not falling asleep on his portfolio, he made it. He had the blunt pencils, a garden of pencil shavings and the smudges of charcoal in unassuming places in his room (the bathroom door frame, the tap, the desk lamp) to show for it.

“Good morning,” he says to Taeil tiredly, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

“Sure it is,” replies Taeil, whose shoulders the world actually does rest on.

Lucas ambles over, beaming, as much a morning person as ever, and pats the two on their back. This wouldn’t be so painful if Lucas didn’t  
(a) underestimate his own strength so severely, and  
(b) have hands the size of Brooklyn—the pat sends both Taeil and Ten stumbling forward. Ten suspects that an overenthusiastic shoulder pat from Lucas would send a shockwave through his body, which would play his vertebrae like a piano. He’s not eager to find out. 

Lucas slings an arm around each of their shoulders, surveying the shop cheerfully. “Good things are going to happen today. I’m sending you good vibes. You can’t stop them coming, they’re already on their way.” 

Ten considers this, and smiles at Lucas. It’s nice having him around for this reason—his company makes it difficult to complain about anything, because Lucas makes every task feel like just another thing, simple and easy to work through, even if it's just sweeping the shop before the first wave of customers, like Taeil reminds Ten to do.

The day is good to Ten.

He sneaks a cookie off a tray to sample, smiles sheepishly at Taeil when he’s caught, and gets generously tipped by Dean Chanyeol, of all people. Ten nearly faints. With how lukewarm business is, Ten finds it in himself to putter about, straightening things on the counter, aligning the plants by the walls, and replacing the coffee grounds in the ornamental ceramic pots on the counter.

He almost misses the yellow end of a post-it that’s been covertly slipped into the last pot—he reaches for it hastily, almost dropping the ceramic pot, which already boasts a chipped rim (Lucas must’ve touched it at some point). He unfolds the post-it with one hand, placing the tiny pot back on the counter with the other absently, and stares at what he finds written on it.

**LMAO “WHAT’S A POST-IT”** **  
****I’d say I can imagine that very clearly, but  
** **I don’t know what you look like :/ pity.** **  
****Taeil is right, though, we’re running out of post-its,,** **  
****How do you feel about switching to a more  
** **sustainable communication method? For the** **  
****greater good of mankind, obviously.** **  
****  
****XXXX-XXX-XXX.**

Ten isn’t a dense boy. He recognizes flirting, even if it’s a downplayed, tentative attempt, a dip of the toe into a cold pool — and honestly, he’s not opposed to it. Maybe that’s what makes him pull up the contacts list on his phone, and save the number under Mysterious Coffee Shop Guy. Maybe what makes him do it is the residual guilt, left over from demolishing Taeil’s pile of post-its so rapidly. Maybe it’s just that this number adds to his contacts someone who’s fun to talk to, and could potentially be something more — but Ten won’t overthink it. At least, not while he has control over it.

(Maybe he also did it because of Yuta’s words, who believes Ten goes out and gets what he wants, and his ego will not survive Yuta being wrong.)

(__)Ɔ 

**[14:32] ten:** hello (▀̿Ĺ̯▀̿ ̿)   
**[14:32] ten:** this is Ten  
 **[14:33] ten:** wait hold on I just realised you have no idea who Ten is  
 **[14:33] ten:** i’m the post it dude ??? from Taeil hyung’s coffee shop??  
 **[14:33] ten:** here’s a Ripley’s Believe It Or Not fact for ya: Ten is not usually this awkward at texting.  
 **[14:33] ten:** bonus Ripley’s fact: Ten doesn’t usually talk about himself in third person. he still doesn’t know why he’s doing it.   
**[14:33] ten:** do you ever regret that the send button is so accessible.

**[16:04] Mysterious Coffee Shop Guy:** Hello!  
 **[16:04] Mysterious Coffee Shop Guy:** HahAhaHAhaha it sure is nice to finally know your name  
 **[16:05] Mysterious Coffee Shop Guy:** Hi Ten, I’m Johnny :)  
 **[16:05] Mysterious Coffee Shop Guy:** I would’ve replied earlier but my shift is on rn lmao  
 ****

**[19:12] ten:** JOHNNY  
 **[19:12] ten:** JOHN  
 **[19:12] ten:** JOHNATHAN  
 **[19:13] ten:** THE JOHNSTER! FRANKENSTEIN’S JOHNSTER  
 **[19:13] ten:** sorry I chugged Red Bull to stay awake in this class, I swear I’m usually not this liberal with capslock  
 **[19:13] ten:** anyway, good to know, i can change your contact name from Mysterious Coffee Shop Guy

**[19:25] johnny hyung:** Ah, that persona was nice while it lasted, thanks for letting me have my moment  
 **[19:25] johnny hyung:** One downside to this texting thing is that I won’t get to see your doodles anymore :/  
 **[19:25] johnny hyung:** It’s too bad, they were fascinating :( my own drawings of people look like parking meters with tufts of hair 

**[19:30] ten:** AHAHAH ST OP  
 **** **[19:30] ten:** being good at drawing helps, especially if you’re a design major, which i find i am  
 **[19:30] ten:** so that works out, i guess. what about you? what assignments do you spend your nights slaving over as a dedicated student of this academic institution?

**[19:40] johnny hyung:** Woah there buddy  
 **[19:40] johnny hyung:** Those are a lot of very bold assumptions you’re making there  
 **[19:40] johnny hyung:** Okay, well, just one, and it’s the “dedicated” part. But to answer your question, I’m a Business major  
 **[19:40] johnny hyung:** This feels strangely like we’re playing 20 questions 

**[19:41] ten:** i mean  
 **[19:41] ten:** we could, actually, why not?

20 questions with Johnny is more fun than Ten remembers the game being, if he's honest about it. He learns Johnny's from Chicago, dabbles in photography, and has an elite collection of reaction memes he seems to pull out with lightning speed when they can be used.

20 questions with Johnny is what keeps him engaged almost throughout the night (because sleep is for the weak, and the weak aren’t continually texting a Business major who’s surprisingly fun to talk to).

20 questions keeps him preoccupied during his shift the next day as well, where he makes rookie mistakes like mistaking salt for sugar, and water for sugar syrup, which results in an undrinkable mess — as it was bound to.

The customer shuffles her feet, staring at the drink as if it’s going to threaten her at gunpoint, and very sweetly asks for a refund. 

A master of getting it together, Ten promptly does so, making her another drink on the house, which is not a very easy feat if you got only maybe 3 hours of sleep the night before, because you couldn't stop yourself from checking your notifications every three seconds hoping to find unread messages.

**[01:00] ten:** okay, my turn  
 **[01:00] ten:** my question to you is: why can i absolutely not concentrate on my notes   
**[01:00] ten:** why do i get up from the computer, stare into the fridge pointlessly and then return to stare at the same two paragraphs in my notes

**[01: 04] johnny hyung:** This is a very easy one, Ten  
 **[01: 04] johnny hyung:** It’s because you’re actually a Sim. This is undeniable Sim behaviour, prove me wrong. 

**[01:05] ten:** JSGDGFDDJSJ

**[01: 05] johnny hyung:** What in the everloving heck is that   
**[01: 05] johnny hyung:** Are you having a stroke

**[01: 06] ten:** it’s a keysmash, John hyung. try it - press any letter

**[01: 05] johnny hyung:** 4

**[01:07] ten:** L U N G S   
**[01:07] ten:** eat lunch, hyung (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞

(__)Ɔ 

It’s not the kind of game that ends. Ten has figured that out, staring at his phone screen under the desk, biting back the kind of smile you’re not meant to have in the middle of an evening Studio Art 101 lecture. He played 20 questions with Johnny throughout his shift, on his way to class, and it appears even Professor Kibum and his at-length discussion with repeated, frenzied pointing to the blackboard, isn’t enough to keep Ten from it. 

**[19:08] johnny hyung:** Okay, my turn  
 **[19:08] johnny hyung:** This one’s kind of tough, I don’t know if you can answer it

**[19:08] ten:** try me (ง'̀-'́)ง

**[19:08] johnny hyung:** Hmm, are you sure though?

**[19:09] ten:** buddy  
 **[19:09] ten:** yesterday The Dean Chanyeol came in, and talked to me, and asked for a drink, and tipped me.  
 **[19:09] ten:** and i stood my ground the whole time, so yeah, i think i can handle it, come @ me !!

**[19:09] johnny hyung:** Oh wow. Okay, here goes.  
 **[19:09] johnny hyung:** How do you feel about the idea of meeting up with me sometime?

(__)Ɔ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;-; i'm sorry about how random the updating is ?? i've been sitting here writing chapter after chapter and all of them are for the fics that come after this one hJWFEJEN i'll get you the rest of it soon, double pinky swear.


	4. don't gotta sing the blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before he knows it Johnny is right in front of him, all six-foot-whatever of easy confidence, and he’s saying, “Hi, I’m John Seo, it’s very nice to finally meet you in person.”
> 
> His voice is pleasant, slightly teasing, rough around the edges. 
> 
> “What are you so tall for,” blurts Ten, who has never once in his life made use of his brain-to-mouth filter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i sorry that this chapter is almost ✨four✨ times the length of the others? no, i am not.  
> is it because i have the self control of a 2 year old? yes, it is.  
> IM SORRY OKAY I WAS EXCITED AND THEN I GOT CARRIED AWAY  
> happy valentines day, babies <3

Johnny pockets his phone, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

He wonders, momentarily, if it’s too soon to be asking Ten—a veritable stranger whom he’s texted for under a week (notwithstanding the two months of post-its)—to meet with him, but it's just a meeting. He’s not asking for Ten’s children or property, it’s not an outlandish request. Unsurprisingly, the prospect of meeting Ten fills Johnny with pleasant excitement, because judging Ten's characteristic dreadful puns and inventive emoticons, he seems like he'd be fantastic company. 

Conversations over text with Ten are lively, but Johnny gets the feeling they're no match for the real thing, in person. 

Business at Ground Floor today evening isn't heavy, which is a good thing, because Johnny's alone at the counter—for most of the evening, Taeil has been sequestered in the manager’s office, kept company by a large pile of paperwork waiting to be filed. This effectively meant Johnny had to man both the counter and the register by himself, all while keeping an ear out for the _ping_ of Ten's text, but he doesn't mind the quietude—it happens to be one of his favorite things about the coffee house.

Before he knows it, the evening has slipped away, and Johnny finds himself wiping down the counter, waving a pleasant goodbye to their last customer. He clears the tables, a little lost in thought, and finds his way into the manager’s office—but Taeil isn’t there.

The lights are still on in the room, though, which is a little odd, because Taeil is usually meticulous about these things. Johnny closes the file lying open on the desk, shuts the drawer on it, and switches off the lights in the room.

He finds Taeil in the back, by the lockers in the storeroom, where he arrives to stash his employee apron after hanging up the CLOSED sign. Taeil is rarely to be found in the back—he's generally in the manager's office or at the counter—which is maybe why he looks a little incongruous on the wooden bench, like a saltwater fish in a fishbowl. His head is in his hands. Johnny has the impression that Taeil has had a long day.

“Tired?” Johnny asks softly, crossing the small room to pull the rafters of the window shut. Taeil looks up, with a non-committal hum and unseeing eyes. His face looks soft, drawn, a little lost. Johnny takes off his apron, folding it, and settles down beside him.

“A little bit,” Taeil finally says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I haven’t taken inventory of the supplies yet, you know? I have to order more flour tomorrow, call up the suppliers, all of that. I can’t do that without inventory numbers—and the paperwork isn’t letting up, either.” Taeil sighs. It settles heavy around them. 

“Taeil hyung,” Johnny says, voice gentle. “I closed the shop. The lights are off, the sign says CLOSED. It’s time to pack up, and call it a day. I could take inventory tomorrow, if you want. I don’t mind.”

Taeil stays silent, contemplative. Eventually, he settles for a, “It’s not much work, don’t worry about it. I’ll have to come in early tomorrow anyway,” and stares at his nails. Usually, Taeil is placid, cheerful and in control. Even through his exasperation, he’s surprisingly levelheaded, and Johnny thinks, distantly, that's maybe why despondency is a foreign look on him. 

Johnny wants to make Taeil feel better, so he omits mentioning that the strawberry syrup dispenser needs to be replaced. Instead, he says, “Hyung, have you considered taking a day off?”

“And closing the shop for a day?” Taeil muses, sounding less affronted than Johnny expected. “I can—” Taeil pauses. “I see why that would be a good idea, actually. I could use the time, if I’m being frank.” He laughs, humorlessly, but it’s not bitter. It’s not resigned, either. He sounds sleepy. 

Johnny pushes his apron into the locker, shutting it, and holds a hand out to Taeil. “Time to head back to the dorms,” he offers, gentle, and Taeil smiles up at him. “Right behind you. Thanks, Johnny.”

“If you need any help tomorrow, hyung, you know I’ll be around.”

“I probably won’t, a day’s plenty—you needn’t come in tomorrow, take your shift off. I’ll let the morning shift know, too.” Johnny and Taeil put their coats on in relative silence, say quiet goodbyes, trade smiles and head towards their respective dorms. 

It’s a warm night, notes Johnny with some surprise, straightening his coat collar. He can see the stars if he squints at the patch of sky directly above the quadrant, but he doesn’t want to risk getting distracted by it and accidentally walking into a lamp, which is a very real possibility (as suggested by his past record of walking into no small number of poles).

Johnny pulls out his phone to look at the time, wondering what he has in his dorm fridge that’s dinner-passing for the night, and notices the notification he’d been waiting for.

 **[20:50] ten:** that would actually be pretty great, not gonna lie  
 **[20:53] ten:** i have classes from 5 pm onward, but we could meet at the library? pick a time   
**[20:53] ten:** i’ll probably be studying there after my shift, before class, if you want to catch me there

Johnny grins.

 **[20:59] Johnny:** About that  
 **[20:59] Johnny:** Ground Floor’s going to be shut tomorrow, Taeil hyung has filing to do  
 **[21:00] Johnny:** I’ll drop by the library after 3! See you there! :)

Johnny wonders if the exclamation marks were a little exuberant.

“Live a little,” says his inner voice. He decides to agree.

(__)Ɔ 

Ten taps a nervous rhythm onto the carpeted floor of the library with his foot, antsy beyond belief. He glances at the **3:40 p.m.** displayed on the face of his watch (yes, he’s wearing a _watch_. No, he didn’t overthink it, he’s in just a simple sweater and a black cap with three earrings in and a spritz of perfume, that he definitely didn’t call Yuta up to help him pick.)

(Definitely not.) 

(Yuta isn’t tired of being his unofficial stylist, and didn’t threaten to cut off Ten’s air circulation if he called Yuta up one more time. Yuta is his best, most reliable friend. Yes.)

He stares dispassionately at the page his design textbook is open to, a segment on Grid Systems. It has not proven to be interesting at all, much to the surprise of nobody, and he doubts it’s going to start anytime soon. Resolutely, Ten ignores the fact that the three Grid Systems assignments due next week are worth a generous chunk of his grade—he’s finding it a little hard not to fixate on the fact that Johnny said "after lunch", and it's nearing 4, and Ten needs to leave before 5. 

Fortunately or unfortunately, Ten’s vantage point from this table, directly across from the library door, is also a great one—which is a nice way of saying that he jumps every time someone who could be Johnny walks in. 

Despite that, he’s not ready for the real thing. 

It begins like this: Ten tries, he really does, to study. Desultorily, he scribbles his way through a chapters’ worth of notes, then takes to opening and closing apps on his phone to look busy, then decides to teach himself to spin his pen around his fingers, and fails at it miserably.

He decides pretty soon that they're not cutting it. Not Pen Olympics, not Mindless App-surfing, not even Staring at his Design Textbook in the Hopes that it'll Magically Turn into a Captivating Summary of the Chapter All By Itself. Eventually, he takes to making up background stories and personalities for a group of girls sitting by the door, because it trumps all those.

He’s trying to come up with a suitable backstory for the girl with the precariously rocking chair, sitting between Brunette Who’s Actually A Fridge in Disguise and Serial Killer With the Pixie Haircut, when his attention is arrested by someone who pushes open the large door, pushes his hair out of his eyes, and subsequently pushes _all_ thoughts out of Ten’s head. 

The Tall, Blonde and Gorgeous meme flashes like a movie reel highlight in front of Ten’s eyes. He really needs a good second to process how the newcomer has the _sheer audacity_ to be this built, _this_ tall and _this handsome,_ all at the same time. Ten wouldn’t be Ten if he didn’t spare attractive boys several seconds of an appreciative glance — his gaze roves a defined cupid’s bow, broad shoulders, really great hair, holy shit—

Ten watches him pull out a phone, and dial a number. Ten’s own phone immediately begins ringing.

He jumps several centimeters in the air, knees knocking into the table, scrambling to quell the chorus of Big Bang’s _Bang Bang Bang_ that simply _erupts_ from his phone. He can swear phones ring twelve times louder than normal in libraries. At any rate, he almost drops the phone like, twice, but manages to catch a glimpse of the contact name: it reads “johnny hyung”. His neck snaps up immediately, eyes wide, and the stranger, who (obviously) noticed Ten’s phone ringing, smiles at him. He hangs up, and Ten’s own screen immediately goes black.

Several things happen at once. Ten comes to the very rapid realization that Tall Blonde and Gorgeous is _Johnny._

He stands up a little belatedly, sending a tiny wave in Johnny’s direction, and his heart does a funny little flip when Johnny chuckles at that and returns the wave. With all the functionality he can muster, Ten tries for a smile, praying it doesn’t come off as a grimace.

Johnny draws closer to the table, and Ten suddenly becomes aware of his own staggering nervousness, which is a little foreign to him. Self-assurance usually follows Ten around no matter where he goes, and he’s no stranger to good looking boys—he’s friends with a whole Wong Lucas, come on—but more than that, perhaps it’s to do with the fact that two months of expectations hinging off post-it communication all come down to the next minute. 

Being jumpy is reasonable, Ten insists in his head, fidgeting uncontrollably with the sleeve of his sweater. He’s so caught up in his aggressive rationalization of this nervousness, that before he knows it Johnny is right in front of him, all six-foot-whatever of easy confidence, and he’s saying, “Hi, I’m John Seo, it’s very nice to finally meet you in person.”

His voice is pleasant, slightly teasing, rough around the edges. 

“What are you so tall for,” blurts Ten, who has never once in his life made use of his brain-to-mouth filter.

Johnny laughs at that, pleasant, deep. Ten really doesn’t know how to act. Nobody warned him Johnny was going to be _exactly_ his type. He watches Johnny survey the empty chairs at the table, and stop by the one closest to Ten. Johnny is Ten's new favourite person for all of three seconds, until Johnny replies, “Maybe you’re just short, you know. Or, well, at least, shorter than I expected,” concedes Johnny, still smiling toothily at Ten’s affronted gasp. He slides his coat onto the chair. 

“ _Giraffe,_ ” Ten accuses, narrowing his eyes at Johnny, forgetting to be starstruck by his uncanny resemblance to Adonis for a second. 

“It’s okay, Ten, there’s really nothing wrong with being like, four feet tall,” Johnny sings, making himself comfortable on the chair, long legs sprawling. 

_Be offended!_ Ten’s brain insists. _OhohOHOh, I see bicep_ , is all Ten can think in response. Great. This is just fantastic. It’s not fair that this view comes at the cost of Ten’s coherence. Shaking his head to scatter thoughts, Ten levels Johnny with the sternest stare he can muster. “If you’re trying to placate me, you’re doing the worst job. I hope you walk into an aeroplane on your way back.”

“No you don't,” laughs Johnny. 

“No, I don’t,” relents Ten, trying very hard not to let a pout make its way onto his face. If there was any ice to break, Ten realizes, then it’s been broken now — Johnny made sure of it so effortlessly that Ten didn’t even notice. 

He leans a shoulder against the shelf of books instead of taking a seat, just to feel like the taller one while he can. Dimly, Ten wishes he’d worn more earrings so he could intimidate Johnny while being decked out in all his jewellery.

(Or so that Johnny would find them pretty, whatever. No one asked.) 

Johnny looks up at him expectantly, propping his chin on his elbow. Ten hopes he looks imposing to Johnny, if only because Johnny has to look up 45 degrees to make eye contact with him, but Johnny’s voice is teasing when he asks, “Was that a Big Bang ringtone I heard earlier, by the way?” 

Ten resists big-banging his head against the shelf, and settles for hiding his eyes with one hand, torn between laughing and crying. “Yeah, it was, I have taste—but for something that’s been on silent since like, 2012, my phone sure picked the most embarrassing time to be _that_ loud. I love Taeyang, but I also cherish my dignity, you know?” 

Johnny’s cheeks bunch up when he laughs, and leave whiskers on his face. Ten shoves away the fondness that it awakens in him, and takes a second to look fully at all of Johnny. He takes in the tight material of Johnny’s white t-shirt, which fits him like it was tailor-made for every inch of him. There’s a thin silver chain, almost an afterthought, hanging around his neck.

Ten swallows.

“What have you been studying?” Johnny asks, eyeing Ten’s textbook curiously. It’s almost offending, really, how good Johnny looks, liberal rips in his black jeans and all. A feeling Ten refuses to immediately identify is quickly replaced by indignance. “No no, wait, we’re not moving on, I have another bone to pick with you. You look like you’re dressed for a photoshoot. Why are you dressed for a photoshoot?”

“You’re a very aggressive complimenter,” notes Johnny. He sounds very amused. “I’m flattered beyond words. Are you looking for a ‘sorry’ or a ‘thank you’ from me?” 

Ten turns his nose up at Johnny. “Neither. I’m looking for a reason why you didn’t give me the memo. Would it kill you to look like a normal, sleep-deprived college student, like the rest of us?” Without even meaning to, Ten reaches forward, flicking Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny clears his throat, entertained. Ten snatches his hand back, ears turning red.

“Not all of us can pull that look off as well as _you_ clearly are, Ten. Especially not those of us above 170 centimeters—but that’s besides the point. Beige is a good color on you,” Johnny replies, more sincerely than Ten was ready for. He can’t help going a little pink, taken aback by the certainty Johnny compliments him with, like he means every word. 

“And, well,” finishes Johnny, giving Ten an exceedingly obvious once-over, “I’d say your jeans are doing your legs a world of justice.” He leans back on his chair with a smug grin, not looking away. 

Ten sputters, suddenly feeling very exposed, standing there with Johnny’s opaque, dancing eyes still on him. He tries valiantly to suppress the flush on his cheeks, but he has very little hope of it working. How is this even happening to him. _Easy answer,_ says the voice in his head, and it sounds like it’s rolling its eyes. _Johnny’s over 170cm, blond, and exceptionally well dressed. Good luck._ Ten’s fingers twitch. 

“Observant, aren’t we,” Ten finally manages, still pink. He sinks into the chair. Johnny leans forward, elbows on the table, and smiles at Ten indulgently. Goddamnit, Ten really should’ve worn more earrings. 

“I still don’t know your last name,” Johnny says, like it’s something he suddenly remembered. 

“Lee, it’s Lee. Wait, so can I call you hyung?"

“I really thought you’d begin calling me that without asking, you know,” Johnny admits, tilting his head slightly. The line of his jaw is so clean. It’s hard to look away. Ten manages to, though, even if it’s with a significant amount of effort. “Hyung, I’m not a heathen,” reasons Ten. “Bratty, but not impolite.”

“Not impolite? You called me a giraffe within twelve seconds of meeting me, Ten Lee,” Johnny grins. He’s smiling again, which means it’s not an accusation, but it also means he’s aware he has a point.

“I swear I’m usually much nicer to people,” Ten groans, feeling a little sheepish, realizing that this meeting wasn’t giving Johnny a very favorable first impression of him. It dawns on Ten that Johnny probably had as many expectations from him as he did of Johnny, and that maybe he should try a little harder to be good company, because Johnny is _definitely_ easy on the eyes, but also because he seems like a really decent guy. 

Besides, he’s sure the first impression would be helped along by more earrings.

“I believe you,” says Johnny, but it’s not convincing.  
  
Ten narrows his eyes. “It’s true!” he insists. “All I’ve done since you walked through that door is compliment you, you overglorified telephone pole!” Johnny looks like he’s trying to suppress a laugh. Ten’s jaw snaps shut when he realizes he’s really not helping his case, not by making tall people jokes. 

Johnny’s voice is so full of mirth when he speaks, it sounds like he’s going to interrupt himself with laughter any second. Ten wants to turn into a puddle on the chair. “If you really want me to believe you, Ten Lee, you’re going to have to prove it to me.” 

Ten looks directly at Johnny. Johnny doesn’t look like he’s kidding. There’s a small smile playing about his mouth, but he definitely means it. Ten raises an eyebrow. “Did you just throw down a gauntlet?”

“And if I did?”

“In my _own_ home?”

“Ten, this is the campus library.”

“You’re deflecting, Johnny Seo!”

Someone clears their throat menacingly. Ten and Johnny, both caught completely off guard, jump high enough to make thudding sounds against the chairs. They turn to find the librarian, glaring down her pointy nose at them. She’s wearing a grey wig, a pair of pince-nez glasses, and an extremely displeased expression. “Will you two keep it _down_ ,” she hisses angrily. Ten grimaces, ducking his head in apology.

For some reason, she takes it upon herself to stay instead of leaving right away, and explain at length the importance of the “decorum” that one must “dutifully maintain” in a “public area where committed students, rare as they are, are known to come to study.” 

This wouldn’t have been unbearable if  
(a) she wasn’t yelling right at Ten, not even sparing a second glance at Johnny (maybe because Ten looked guiltier), and  
(b) Johnny wasn’t taking full advantage of it, and pulling ridiculous faces at Ten.

Holding in his laughter makes it probably the hardest five minutes of Ten’s life, lips twitching, pressure building up in his ears. Ten widens his eyes warningly, trying his best to communicate to Johnny that the second the librarian leaves, Ten _will_ strangle him if he doesn’t stop with the faces.

Johnny pulls a face in response that turns Ten’s face purple. 

“I hope I’ve made myself _clear,_ ” she glowers down at Ten, with some finality. As soon as she turns to Johnny, he sits up straighter, eyes wide and guileless, the perfect picture of a devoted student. “Absolutely. It won’t happen again.” He gives her a winning smile, and adequately appeased, she waddles off.

Ten lets out a heaving breath, and then a series of concerning wheezing noises. Unable to keep himself upright, he slumps on the table, limp arms and neck. Johnny blinks at the pile of Ten on the table, mouth twitching, and pokes at an arm. “You okay there, Ten?”

“Never speak to me again,” rasps Ten, still not done laughing. “My— ow, my stomach hurts. I’m s—I’m suing you for oesophagus damage.” His shoulders shake with silent laughter, and there are tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. He still can’t find it in himself to peel himself off the table.

Johnny says, magnanimously, “Suing me for something isn’t going to win you any prizes for being nice to me, which is what you promised you’d do.”

Ten raises his face from the surface of the table, squinting at Johnny. “I never p—”

“You promised,” assures Johnny, patting Ten’s arm.

Ten considers it for a moment, and decides to go with it. “Okay, Johnny,” he says sweetly. “I will be nice to you.”

“Your tone terrifies me,” declares Johnny.

“Just go with it,” Ten says, with a glare. Johnny shoots him a thumbs-up.

(__)Ɔ 

Time flies when you’re having fun, Ten’s heard. He thinks it’s very inconsiderate of it. 

It’s all Johnny’s fault, really—besides being very tall and very well dressed, he’s a charming conversationalist, and it’s impossible not to want to go on talking to him. It’s the way he talks about things, likeable and engaging, that betrays his intelligence—the kind of conversation you can’t ever get enough of. Ten can’t resist being drawn to it.

What feels like fifteen minutes has been almost over an hour, which Ten realizes when he catches sight of the **4:50 p.m.** that the face of his watch proudly sports. He’s going to have to downright _fly_ to class if he wants to get to Professor Kibum’s lecture by 5. 

Johnny laughs at Ten’s poor time management, which isn’t very helpful of him at all. Even then, Ten doesn’t bother hiding how reluctant he is to leave, sweeping his textbook into his bag like it’s responsible for all the problem’s he’s ever faced. Ten _really_ doesn’t want to leave. “I’m not done being nice to you,” frowns Ten, when Johnny asks him why he’s grumbling. 

“I see,” Johnny says, and then suggests, “if you don’t have much to do after class, you can continue being nice to me over dinner, if you’d like.”

Ten brightens. “Yes. Yes. Absolutely. I have to sprint to the Arts building right now, but text me a place and meet me there at 7?”

He leaves with a small wave at Johnny, and immediately dashes across the quadrant, narrowly avoiding students and teachers and signposts and all these other _things_ that lie in the way of him and the lecture hall—there are _so_ many dustbins, god, what is this, an obstacle course?—, all while mentally mapping a layout of the most strategic way to wear a horde of earrings simultaneously, to blow Johnny away at dinner.

(__)Ɔ 

The nights are cold again.

Ten can tell he’s not the only one who found the air outside frigid, judging by Johnny’s red nose and bright eyes, which are appraising him from across the table in a tiny, hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant that Johnny said he found entirely by accident while following a small tabby cat down an alley. It's like he walked out tailor-made from Ten's dreams, really.

Ten looks around, drinking it all in—it’s a lovely little place, steam billowing from the tiny kitchen and stone walls with pictures of people Ten’s never heard of, old and autographed. They place orders, for noodles and onion soup, and then it’s just the two of them again.

“So, how was class?” Johnny asks, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.

“Are you really going to start out with that?”

Johnny laughs. “Okay, then. Your earrings are very pretty, Ten.”

Ten preens. “I know. Count them?” He’s wearing all his best ones, ones he knows catch the light like pinpricks of stars dangling from his earlobes. He doesn’t know whether to attribute the warmth he feels despite the cold to the heaters by their feet, or to Johnny, who’s now reaching for Ten’s chin to gently tilt his head this way and that. Ten tenses, then relaxes, obligingly giving Johnny a front row seat to his earring show.

“...eight, nine, ten,” murmurs Johnny in wonder, letting his hand drop. “Wait, eleven.”

“Eleven piercings,” confirms Ten, with the hint of a smile, grazing his cheek where Johnny's fingers had been, leaving behind a warm, lingering phantom-touch. “Subtle, Mr. Seo.” Johnny only laughs in response, an acknowledgement that it was entirely on purpose. “It’s only been five minutes,” Ten says, in a mischief-diffused tone, “isn’t it good manners to leave the flirting for a little later?”

“Technically,” counters Johnny, eyes dancing, “it’s been about two months, hasn’t it? _And_ you spent an hour with me today already, back at the library. We’re hardly meeting for the first time.”

Ten knocks his foot against Johnny’s under the table, with a, “Fair, that’s fair. We’re meeting for the second time, but it’s not the first—remind me what point you were making, again?” 

Johnny traps Ten’s ankles between both his own, and tugs lightly. Ten almost laughs at the nerve, glancing around to see if anyone’s looking their way. When he looks back at Johnny, Johnny’s inspecting his own nails nonchalantly, mouth pulled up into half a smile. “I’m just saying," he says, gaze flicking up to meet Ten's, "five minutes into dinner isn’t a socially acceptable time to turn on the charm, but it’s been two months and an hour, so…” 

He inclines his head at Ten, as if to say _your turn._

“Who says ‘turn on the charm?’ A real gentleman, aren’t you?” teases Ten, picking up his glass of water to keep his hands busy. 

“Depends, are you into that?” returns Johnny, earning a very genuine laugh from Ten, who’s rapidly learning how big a fan he is of the wavelength Johnny operates on. It doesn’t come off as snarky, just confident, and confidence suits Johnny almost as much as the blond hair does. Johnny releases Ten's ankle. Even so, Ten keeps it right where it is, in Johnny’s space, under the table. Johnny looks appropriately amused with himself, too. “I’m not usually this forward,” he admits despite himself, sounding bemused. 

“Just with me, then?” grins Ten, because he wants to hear Johnny say it. He really does.

Johnny, bless his soul, really takes a moment to consider it. “And if I say yes?”

“Then that’ll have to wait a second, the food’s here,” Ten replies, cheeky, following the tray the waiter’s bringing to them with unmasked glee in his gaze. “God, it’s been a while since I ate anything other than takeout.”

(__)Ɔ 

“—but if you were a Literature major, I don't know if I would be able to make any riveting conversation with you,” Johnny says, picking at his noodles.

“I think I would’ve been able to hold my own if _you_ were one,” Ten says through a mouthful of noodles, and schools his features into the most scholarly expression he can assume. “I would even go so far as to offer, in fact, that if Lady Macbeth had known about pegging, there wouldn’t have been as much murder in the play.”

Johnny chokes on his noodles abruptly, caught off guard, and it's extremely gratifying to Ten, who grins into his glass of water.  
  
“I have to—” Johnny says, once he's done clearing his throat, “—I have to agree. That’s an excellent point. Bring that up in a Lit lecture.”

“Well, do you have any Lit major friends?”

“Obviously not, and you definitely don’t, either.”

“…Touché.” 

(__)Ɔ 

At some point, the conversation devolves into complaining about their pending assignments over red bean buns, which is a lovely pastime if one is by oneself, but doubly rewarding if you do it in pairs or groups. 

“Mine are due in two days,” Johnny divulges, glancing around furtively as if that would protect his dignity.

Ten gasps. “You’re out two nights before a _Business_ submission date? Daring.”

“What can I say,” Johnny allows, with a wink, “I like to live dangerously.”

“I’ll pray for you,” Ten grimaces, and pats his shoulder sympathetically. “I hope you’re nearly done, I really do. Mine are coming up next month. It’s so shitty. If I don’t finish Grid Systems like, yesterday, I’ll fail all of them. And you know what happens to people who fail their college assignments.”

Johnny makes an inquiring noise. “Do I, now? What happens to them?”

“They end up washing people’s utensils for a living, Johnny Seo! Either that, or they become cooks, or maybe maids. The maid outfit that comes with it isn’t even guaranteed.”

Johnny makes a strangled sound into his soup. He manages to swallow it down, and points out hoarsely, “We work at Ground Floor. Utensil cleaning is part of your job description anyway.” Ten generously ignores how Johnny can’t quite meet his eye anymore. Ten chalks the faint flush on Johnny’s cheeks up to the mention of the maid outfit, because he _knew_ it would have that effect. 

He doesn’t bring it up, though, because he’s playing nice. 

(__)Ɔ 

They split the bill. Johnny insists on paying, which Ten counters saying that _he_ requested Johnny to spend time with him after class, so the meal should be on _him_.

Johnny maintains that _he_ decided where they’d meet, so the meal’s on _him_.

Ten isn’t having it.

The waiter, standing there awkwardly in his starchy uniform, still clutching the bill, sighs. There are already three orders waiting for him at the counter, ready to be served, that are growing cold. They don’t pay him enough for this. “What if you split it?” he suggests, tiredly. Ten and Johnny fall silent, realizing the waiter had been privy to their ten-minute-long debate, and pay with some mortification.

“Wow, it’s cold,” Johnny hisses, the two of them stepping out of the warmth of the restaurant, into the unforgiving bite of the night. It takes mere seconds for their breath to fog up. Ten turns to Johnny, watching the light from the restaurant reflected in his eyes. “I had fun tonight,” he says, meaning every word. Johnny smiles at him. “I did, too. I’m kind of hoping it doesn’t end here, though—can I walk you to your dorm? After all the flirting we’ve done tonight, it would be criminal of me not to offer.”

Ten considers this. There was a _lot_ of flirting that went down, that much is true. “You’re not wrong,” he muses, trying very hard to tamp down the note of delight in his voice. “I’d love for you to walk me back.” Johnny grins, and offers Ten his elbow. Ten takes it, and the two set off down the road. 

“At least I had an excuse for the flirting. You’re just shameless,” accuses Ten over their footsteps, because now that Johnny’s mentioned it, Ten’s beginning to fixate on the way that Johnny fed him noodles, and stole a bun off his plate, and he can’t stop replaying it in his head. 

“Oh yeah? What was it?”

“I’m on Be Nice to Johnny Duty, aren’t I? I think I succeeded. I’ve been _very_ nice to you the whole evening.”

“You have,” agrees Johnny. “ _My_ excuse is the number of earrings you’ve worn. They look fantastic on you.”

“Knew they were a good idea,” Ten mutters victoriously under his breath, and judging by the way Johnny throws his head back to laugh, he probably heard Ten. 

“Also,” Johnny adds, his laugh subsiding belatedly, “we’re going the wrong way. Campus is in that direction.” 

They turn.

(__)Ɔ 

The wide streets of their internal route are mostly deserted, unlit except by a couple of weak, flickering streetlights. The stars are more visible than usual. There’s a light breeze, fresh but extremely chilly. Without really meaning to, Ten huddles closer to Johnny, noting with some annoyance that he’d underestimated how far into winter they were.

“Cold?” inquires Johnny, more than a little amused. 

“A little chilly,” grits Ten, burrowing into Johnny’s side. “Hold me, you massive heat radiator. You’re so warm, god.”

“If you insist,” chuckles Johnny, and pulls Ten closer into his side. Ten rubs his palms together, evaluating the likelihood of catching frostbite tonight, and it must show on his face because Johnny wordlessly takes his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Ten suspects Johnny would've offered him his coat if Ten hadn't already been wearing one, and the thought makes him smile without realizing it.

Johnny’s hand is _so_ warm. Ten tells him as much, and eventually insists on buying them both hot chocolate from a small stand at the end of the avenue, because his nose is beginning to go a little numb.

He bullies Johnny into letting him pay, (“Please, hyung. Hyung. Financial independence is important to me. Please let me pay? _Please?_ ” “Okay, okay!”) and hands Johnny a cup grandly. They stand together in silence, in a pool of light directly under the streetlamp, and quietly sip the drinks, hand-in-hand.

“Almond and honey?” Johnny guesses, squinting at the cup sleeve for a hint. 

“Close, it’s almond and maple syrup. Objectively the two best things you could put in hot chocolate,” replies Ten, inclining his cup. Johnny agrees, nodding, and moves closer to Ten's side. Ten welcomes him, fiercely combating the urge to tuck his head into the crook of Johnny's neck.

They dispose of their cups in the dustbin of a park they pass, and turn onto the main road. The shops lining the street are still lit. 

Ten expected the rest of the walk to be in satisfied, companionable silence, but they fall to discussing their childhood—which is maybe a little profound for a postprandial conversation, but talking to Johnny comes so easily, Ten can't stop himself.

He tells Johnny how much he misses the sea, and how he's always liked the water. It's freeing, Ten reasons, not to weigh as much as you usually do, to be able to move faster than you can on your feet, and he's always been fond of the smell of salt-saturated air, and tiny crabs ("Tiny crabs, John hyung!!!" "This is big crab erasure, but okay.") 

"My grandmother used to say I must've been a fish in my past life, you know, like grandmothers do," Ten says, screwing up his forehead in recollection—and this is what he means. You don't just go telling people you're meeting for the first time about your grandmother's speculations regarding your past life, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world with Johnny. 

Johnny, for his part, contributes with how much he misses his dog, a border collie named Caramel (“It’s been so long since I saw her in person. She’s probably grown since then. She should be about your height by now.” “She sounds so swee—NOW JUST ONE SECOND, I’M NOT _THAT_ SHORT, YOU KNOW—” “Can't they see your feet on your driver’s license photo?” “...I can walk myself back, thanks.”). 

They even discuss Ground Floor, which was bound to come up at some point or the other (“—so it was a long day, but I finally conquered the microwave, and nothing was charred, burnt or frayed at the end of it.” “Except maybe Taeil hyung’s nerves, Ten—” “WHY ARE YOU SO _MEAN_ TO ME—”) and turn into the last lane, where there’s nothing except the campus grocery store and the stationery.

Johnny gives Ten’s hand a little squeeze, staring at the OPEN on the door of the stationery. “Give me one second,” he says distractedly, and disappears into the shop. Ten watches him disappear behind the shelves through the glass door, something like fondness stirring in his chest. 

If he had to use a really shitty metaphor to describe everything he felt today, he’d liken his affinity to Johnny to the way the strawberry syrup leaked from the dispenser—not ‘slowly, then all at once’, this isn’t Fault in our Stars—more like something you watched happen, fully knowing it was happening, until you decided to do something about it. 

Lost in thought, Ten doesn’t notice when Johnny returns.

It’s only when Johnny taps him on the shoulder that he sees the two packets of post-its Johnny’s holding. His eyes are shining in the half-light from the store when he says, “Look, I bought these, for Ground Floor. It’s partly out of guilt that we used up all of Taeil hyung’s, but partly also because now leaving post-its for you feels like something I can’t go without doing. It brightens up the shift, you know?”

Ten stays silent for a long moment. He decides, during this long moment, that he's never wanted to kiss anyone more.

He clears his throat. “I, uhm. Yes. Yes! It does. You’re a genius, Johnny hyung. And don’t think I didn’t notice you paid, even though we’re both going to use those.” He frowns at Johnny, who holds up his hands in mock-surrender.

“You paid for the hot chocolate,” sings Johnny, “so this is fair.” He takes Ten’s hand again. Ten lets him. 

(__)Ɔ

“So," Ten says, dragging his feet as they close in on the three steps, "this is me.”

They’d crossed the quadrant in relative silence, and were now at the foot of Ten's dorm building. There's a yellow-adjacent lightbulb that hangs forlornly above the door to the stairwell, and turns the tips of Johnny's blond hair to something like copper. Johnny looks up at the building, bracing himself against the small railing with one arm, other hand still in Ten's. “I know you already said this, but I feel like it's worth repeating—I had a great time today.”

Ten hums, content, squeezing Johnny's hand. “We should do this again, after assignment week.”

“I’d love that,” Johnny says, and then he’s handing Ten one post-it packet. “You can use this to restock Taeil hyung’s pile, and if he sees you do it, well—you'll get into his good books again.” He holds up the other packet, then slips it into his pocket. “That one’s ours. I’ll leave it under the Specials menu, so you’ll know where to find it.”

For a second, Ten has no words that feel worth breaking the silence for.

“Hey, John hyung,” he finally murmurs, climbing up two steps and turning to face Johnny, their hands falling out of each other's. He’s level with Johnny’s face now. He pulls Johnny closer by the shoulders, saying very seriously, “Come here, come here, I have to tell you something.”

“It’s okay, Ten, of course I’ll help you hide the body,” Johnny says placatingly, but curiosity is evident in the shine of his eyes. His hands find their way to Ten’s waist, light, hesitant. Ten smiles, and pulls Johnny closer without warning. Johnny's grip on his waist, accordingly, tightens.

In the dimness, Ten can only faintly tell apart his features even from just five inches away—the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the dip of his cupid’s bow.

“What is it?” Johnny asks, voice tinged with mirth.

“Listen carefully, it’s very important,” Ten says, his voice dropping to a whisper, so Johnny has to lean closer to hear him. 

“Go on,” prompts Johnny.

Ten curls a fist into the fabric at Johnny’s collar, and presses a gentle kiss to Johnny's lips, heart racing. He pulls back slowly, but before he knows it, Johnny's yanking him back, and slotting their lips together with so much conviction that Ten maybe forgets to breathe somewhere along the way.

Ten's entire world spins off its axis, narrowing to the warmth of Johnny's mouth. At this point, it's hard to remember he was even scared of catching hypothermia. Johnny’s hands hug Ten closer, as if there’s any space left for Ten to fit into, and he groans so softly, Ten could’ve imagined it.

He really wants to hear that sound again. He shifts a hand from Johnny's shoulder to his neck, and strokes up his nape, coaxing another groan out of Johnny, louder and more present. It reverberates deliciously down Ten's throat, and _oh._

His toes curl in, completely involuntarily.

Johnny shifts his grip on Ten’s waist, splaying his fingers over the vast expanse of midriff, exhaling a long breath through his nose. Ten smiles into the kiss, Johnny tonguing the seam that parts easily, so easily, with the smile. Johnny’s inconceivably warm, and he makes the cold air feel even colder, but it doesn't matter, not when Ten can breathe his warmth in. 

He takes his hand off Johnny's shoulder to cup his jaw, to tilt his face higher, to press into him deeper. 

The silence of the night hangs like a thick blanket around them, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the soft sounds their lips make—not to mention the deafening sound Ten's heart is making in his ears as it attempts to beat out of his chest. Distantly, the feeling he'd been carrying around all night recedes, as if he'd been waiting for this to happen for hours. 

Johnny slows their pace, angling so their noses brush, and presses a last kiss to Ten’s mouth before breaking away. Eyes still shut, Ten chases his lips without meaning to, and realizes he’s going to fall off the steps—right onto Johnny—if he leans any further. 

He steadies himself with one hand on Johnny’s shoulder, the other on the line of his neck, and wills his heart not to burst at their proximity. Johnny doesn't seem fazed by how close they are—he seems almost pleased, smiling with his lashes lowered, and bringing his thumb up to the center of Ten’s lower lip. “You have absolutely no idea how cold your nose is," Johnny says softly, clearing his throat so his voice will remember how to work again. "It's like an ice cube.”

Ten rolls his eyes, unable to believe that _this_ is what Johnny chose to open with after the kiss. "Wow. I bet you make everyone swoon with your smooth, suave compliments. Look, look at me, I'm swooning."

Johnny laughs like holding it in is beyond him. "Sorry," he grins, unrepentant, "but it's the truth. Your cheeks are red, though, for which I take full credit. I warmed you up." He runs his thumb along Ten's lip, feeling the give there when Ten smiles, small and secret, denying nothing.

"So, this was what you had to say to me?” His hand is still cradling Ten's jaw. Ten kind of never wants it to leave.

“I'm expecting a reply, you know," Ten says boldly, all while willing his hammering pulse to slow a little, so that there’s no risk of Johnny being concerned that perhaps a tiny hummingbird lives in Ten’s ribcage. God knows he's close enough to hear it. 

“My reply is that I agree. I have something to add, though—” Johnny leans in again, very suddenly, extremely welcome, and snatches the breath right out of Ten’s lungs for the second time, because he can.

Ten throws his arms around Johnny's neck, reveling in the feeling of drowning in Johnny everywhere—he can smell a faint, musky cologne, and taste the saccharine residue of the maple syrup on Johnny's tongue, and he's being driven a little crazy by the little circles Johnny's rubbing into his hipbones. 

Cold fingers sneak up the hem of Ten's sweater, and he gasps into the kiss, which Johnny takes as a cue to sneak his tongue into Ten's mouth. It's bold—Ten feels lit up like a Christmas tree on the inside, like someone connected a circuit and flipped the switch. Johnny kisses like he can tell how much Ten likes it, like he's satisfied and willing to comply. Ten's on the verge of losing his mind by the time they break apart, far more breathless than before. 

Ten had meant for this to be a chaste, thank-you, I-loved-tonight kiss. That's not how it went, clearly. Judging by the way Johnny's pupils are blown to the next galaxy, and feeling is returning to Ten's cold lips again, he imagines both of them look a little debauched.

He's not saying he could get used to this, but that's exactly what he's saying.

He lingers in Johnny's space, playing with the buttons on Johnny's collar, unwilling to pull back yet. It seems Johnny's on the same page, because he hooks his thumbs into Ten's belt loops, keeping their faces close, and Ten is more than content to rest his forehead against Johnny, breaths mingling, his heart pumping like it's a hydraulic press. 

“Go finish your Business assignments, Suh,” Ten finally whispers, squeezing Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny's plush lips are the reddest Ten has ever seen them. He feels a wild sort of pride at being responsible for that.

“You’re giving me too many reasons to stay,” mumbles Johnny, but he backs away. Ten, who’d been leaning quite heavily on him all this while, almost falls to his death for maybe the second time in ten minutes. He stumbles forward, fetching up against Johnny, and suddenly they’re nose-to-nose again. Dimly, Ten thinks he could get used to this view of Johnny, so close that their eyes have to cross to meet.

Johnny laughs, using his grip on Ten's waist to pull him up straight. “See what I fucking mean?”

Ten decides he’s safer on solid ground, below 6 feet. He hops off the stairs and drapes himself over the railing. “Thanks for walking me home, hyung. See yourself safely to your dorm building and text me goodnight, okay?” 

“You know I will,” Johnny promises with a twinkle, and then disappears into the night.

(__)Ɔ 


End file.
